


The current of his feeling

by Makioka



Category: David Blaize - E.F. Benson
Genre: Don't Have to Know Canon, First Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Themes, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makioka/pseuds/Makioka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is happy to let life continue on the placid route it has taken- loving David chastely is difficult but not impossible. Then in quick succession two people appear who destroy his peace, and tear him in three directions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The current of his feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Naraht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/gifts).



> _Set in 1880, finish of the Second War in Afghanistan, 7 years after the Test Act was repealed, allowing Catholics to attend university without the necessity of an oath they couldn’t take._
> 
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> 
> Dear Naraht, have the best of Yuletides. I hope you enjoy this post-canon look at what might have happened to David and Frank. Credit for the title goes to Auden.
> 
> Huge thanks for betaing to rabid sam fan. All mistakes that remain are completely my own.
> 
> Depiction is not endorsement.

Frank doesn’t recognise him at first, but then it has been years since he has seen Tom Hughes. The last time had been when he'd looked out of a window and watched him walk out the gate of Marchester, accompanied by his uncle, disgraced and without a friend to bid him goodbye, too tainted to risk association with. He'd watched from the window as the worst thing he'd ever done walked away from the school and didn't look back. Then there had been the letter, Hughes sent to Afghanistan, as an officer, washing his disgrace clean in the blood of the enemies of Empire.

 

In this unfamiliar setting Hughes looks out of place. He's taller of course, thin and tired looking even apart from the cane. Frank can't help glancing at it again, and Hughes gives him a smile. "Her majesty was very grateful," he says, and his eyes are cool and shuttered, his fingers clenched tightly on the cane. "Afghanistan and India were not the kindest," he finishes.

 

Frank nods, and only then notices that his own hands are holding onto his drink as though it will make any difference to what happens next. He doesn't know what Hughes is doing here, in Cambridge, at one of AG's select little parties, hasn’t ever expected to see him again. If he's ever thought of him, it has been to suppose that he would die abroad in the hot sun, and Frank would never have to think of him again.

 

Hughes clears that up for him though. "AG is a friend of a friend," he says, and the casual diminutive sounds odd falling from his lips, false, like he's trying out something that doesn't sound right. "I don't know anything other than the army of course. But the past is past, and mother wanted me to go to Cambridge however late."

 

Frank remembers again the solitariness of Hughes as he walked in company with his uncle from the school. His father was dead, he remembers that much, from Hughes kneeling by his fire to put on the kettle, talking half shyly, half eagerly to the great senior. What comes next he shudders away from.

 

That of course is when David comes up. He recognises Hughes immediately, and there is little of the reservation that Frank would have expected from him, and once more he remembers how easily David forgot and forgave, how pleased he'd been when he'd heard that Hughes had redeemed himself, washed clean his wrongs. There's almost genuine pleasure when he offers his hand, and Hughes shakes it lazily, indifferently. "David," he says in acknowledgement, and Frank remembers that Hughes knew David first, before ever they had met. He doesn't know if he can take David's polite offers to help H find his way around, or H's even politer refusals. He has known from the instant their eyes caught that Hughes is not cured, is not any different. There had been a knowing gleam there, just for instant before the shields had shut down. Frank shifts uncomfortably, meaning to catch Hughes alone... and he doesn’t know what. An apology cannot cover it, an explanation would mean nothing, and what can he say? Don't tell? There is nothing to tell, a few kisses and then David.

 

The party's atmosphere is revived with the inclusion of Hughes, who does not object when AG runs one plump hand down his arm, and confides to the room at large that hot baths are the best thing possible for damaged legs. "I pulled a tendon once," he says dramatically, and launches into a story about the race he would have won, the fair laurels he would have harvested if only his wretched ankle hadn't betrayed him. When he concludes, he turns to Hughes and earnestly recommends a course of steam baths and an application of Johnson’s Balm bound to cure any ills.

 

Frank catches Hughes's eye by accident, falters at the dark amusement there, the sudden knowledge that Hughes thinks AG as simpering and fatuous as any child, and is hit to the raw, oddly defensive of the eccentric, vulnerable don, who would understand all too well the glance. When he finds himself next to Hughes and the wine at the same time, he pretends not to notice, and Hughes turns the same disquieting look on him, with a half laugh as though he can strip Frank bare with his eyes, right down to bone, and find him wanting. He leans forward and with a soft breath says 'I'd like to see the Johnson’s Balm that can cure a mangled leg," and though there's mockery there, implicit and strong, it's delivered in such a way that Frank can barely not laugh.

 

All of a sudden they're too close again. This feels too reminiscent of the past, and Hughes pat little sayings goading Frank into laughter. He hadn't realised he still had those memories. Now H is older, and his mouth is stained temporarily with the good port that AG saves for those he likes the best, and Frank can barely breathe -- has to leave as fast as he can.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He doesn't see Hughes for the longest time, particularly now that he will be taking up a fellowship in the coming term. David doesn't mention Hughes either, but his exploits are swiftly becoming legendary. He's fallen in with a faster set than Frank frequents. His extra years mean that the other students look up to him as a leader, his time as an officer adds a touch of glamour and mystery, and his wound inspires respect. He is older, and Frank fears a dangerous influence, the younger ones fresh out of school gather around him. AG stops inviting Hughes to his parties, wiser once again than he appears.

 

Occasionally Frank will find Hughes lounging in chairs in his rooms, legs swung up, flicking through Frank's Plato, marking up his Demosthenes, or crowing over the latest issue of Punch. Frank doesn't ask him to leave, but doesn’t invite him either. He doesn't know what Hughes wants, has never properly known, he supposes. Between them there is an edge of tension., sweetly singing, disastrously raw. He wishes now that David could understand, that this is something they could speak of together.

 

But David is working hard as well, tutoring the entrants, proving to his father that he has given teaching a fair chance, before earning his blessing to go to London and strive to make it in the literary world. His new passion is travel, he plans to go as far afield as Egypt, to work on excavations that are just getting started before they're dug out. He asks Frank to come with him at least to France before summer's end. Frank is poised between accepting and declining, fearful of the temptation of being so close and unable to touch. Fires he'd thought he'd forgotten, suppressed, are roused and flamed by Hughes’s indolent glances.

 

The first time Frank meets Father Benedict, he's just had the first truly vicious fight with David in a long time. It's predictably over Hughes. David doesn't understand why Frank tolerates him, doesn't know the secrets that lie between them. There is very little doubt in David’s mind that Hughes hasn't changed; he's far too polite, far too well bred to let even a shadow of it be felt in other company, but David's also too honest to pretend that he finds Hughes’s company attractive.

 

As David no longer lives on college grounds, he's not required to come into much contact with him, but twice now when David has vaulted into Frank's rooms through the window, Hughes has been there, lounging on his settle, drinking his tea, making free with his port. On a whim he's even fished out Frank’s old meerschaum and is encouraging it to puff up. He inhales the foul smelling stuff and lets it out reflectively. Frank rather expects him to be sick, there’ve been people on the other side of the court who've complained about the smell before, but Hughes seems to actually enjoy it. "If you'd seen the quality of the shag baccy in India," he says with a grin, "you'd understand that this is actually rather nice. They used to ship it in great quantities, stop the enlisted men going mad on the decent stuff the natives had."

 

Frank leans back, and lets him do this, but David isn't so forgiving. He's blunt and honest like he always is, tells Frank firmly that he doesn't understand the damage that Hughes is doing to Frank's reputation. "You're going to be a fellow," he says. "We all know that, Frank, but it's no good letting Hughes hang around with you. He's rotten through and through, and the other decent chaps can sense that."

 

More from contrariness than anything else, Frank reminds David that they had taken part in the society of dons and other professors while they'd attended Cambridge as undergraduates, but David is firm. "They had a reputation Frank, and they never met us like you do with Hughes, alone in your room."

 

David is drawing away from him, eyes warier, cooler now. He doesn't trust Hughes, and Frank has it brought home to him that David doesn't trust him either. That the misstep of one moment years ago still lies between them, that it will never be completely forgotten is a canker to Frank’s soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After they’ve argued once more about Hughes, Frank ducks out ostensibly to post letters, ushering David before him from the rooms, before he takes his own leave in a vain attempt to finish the conversation. Within moments of him setting out it's raining and Frank is soaked right through as he hurries through the streets. In the rains sudden swift onset he's neglected to bring a coat, is in his shirtsleeves, and regrets his sudden foolishness. He doesn't want to risk getting the letters he needs to post wet and after a moment's indecision he ducks into the only place with its door open- the Mission. It's cool and dark inside, and he pauses to let his eyes adjust to the dim gloom. It smells of incense, and sandalwood, and the floor is freshly scrubbed. He steps back, aware that he's dripping on it, and realises after a few seconds that the man cheerfully laying down the mats a few feet away is the priest. He's wearing a black cassock not unlike the vicars that Frank knows and something feels oddly strange about that. It's all familiar and yet strange at the same time, and he can't help looking around curiously, noting the wooden carved images at regular intervals on the walls, and the immense carved Christ that hangs above the altar.

 

The priest is looking at him. "You're George?" he asks, and doesn't wait for an answer before putting out a friendly hand to shake. "You're rather late but we should be able to squeeze a confession in.” He's already turning to vanish into the gloomy depths of the church when Frank feels obliged to tell him that whoever George is, it isn't him. The man turns and looks at him for a surprised second, then smiles. "You don't look like a George come to think of it," he says with a little amusement hovering round his lips. He offers his hand once more. "Father Benedict," he says. "Can I help?"

 

Frank shakes back, and says "I'm Frank Maddox, and no, not at all. I'm afraid I ducked in here out of the rain for a moment. I'd rather not get these letters wet."

 

Father Benedict chuckles. "The son of man may have no place to rest his head," he says, "but there's no law against sheltering in a church." He glances outside the still open door at the sodden world without, and the endless tumbling rain. "Looks like you might have a little bit of a wait. Come on through to the presbytery, and I can loan you the use of a fire."

 

"Oh it's no problem," Frank protested.

 

There’s no point arguing with the once again retreating back of the priest though, and resigned Frank follows him through into a surprisingly warm little room, well heated by a fire. There are several large split pieces of wood beside the fireplace, and Father Benedict smiles. "A helpful parishioner," he says, and takes a seat himself, clearing a stack of hymnals from Frank's own chair first and pulling it closer to the fire.

 

When the novelty of being forced to warm up beside a fire by a Catholic priest has worn off, Frank's previous bad mood returns in full force. Father Benedict is gently skimming through a hand-written letter that had been discarded onto one side, and the rain is still beating down outside, a low violent hum against the windows, varying in intensity from time to time but relentless. Every detail of his fight with David comes back to him in the silence of the room, and he has to restrain himself from getting up to walk around the room, barely containing his restlessness.

 

He hasn’t realised what he is thinking is so clearly written on his face until Father Benedict lays aside the letter, and says "well I can't understand why George hasn't arrived" as he looks up at Frank, and then pauses, the faintest hint of a frown indenting a face more lively than handsome. There's silence as they survey each other properly for the first time, before Father Benedict breaks the quiet. "Forgive me for saying this Mr Maddox," he says slowly, "but you seem rather distressed."

 

"I'm not Catholic," Frank says instantly, ingrained wariness leaping up.

 

Father Benedict isn't offended though, just quirks his lips a little. "I hadn't imagined you were," he said. "But Catholic or not, you're certainly not happy."

 

Frank is floored by the bold statement, doesn't know what to say, to the decidedly un-English statement that's just been directed at him. The only other person he knows who would say something as decided and truthful as that is David, and he has the benefit of years of friendship behind him. He can't in truth contradict the statement, but the idea of spilling his thoughts to a perfect stranger has little appeal. Father Benedict seems quite happy to wait for an answer though, and the rain is still beating down to an impossible extent.

 

He can't explain exactly how he finds himself helping sort the prayer books in the sacristy, or explaining to the priest that he's had an argument with a dear friend. In retrospect, Father Benedict is an ideal listener, and Frank finds himself divulging more than he intended to, then stopping headlong with the terrible sinking feeling that he's revealed too much of himself. Father Benedict notices his hesitation, and says gently, using his name for the first time. "You're not a Catholic Frank, but I'll treat this as though it's under the seal of confession."

 

He says nothing else, but Frank feels obscurely reassured. There's something comforting and familiar about the priest on a very visceral level, and he finds himself instinctively relaxing. When Father Benedict makes a cup of tea with clear signs of practice, he accepts a cup and even when the rain begins to quieten, he feels reluctance to move. It's been too long since he's been able to be open and honest with someone. These days it's like David is moving irrevocably further from him, a chasm opening between them, that Frank for all his helpless love cannot bridge.

 

When the rain finally ceases, he stands, and places the tea-cup down, awkward again, unsure of what to say. Father Benedict catches the silence for him though, smiles with the already familiar twist of lips, and escorts him to the door. He's wrapped up the letters in brown paper for Frank in case of further rainfall as a measure of protection, neat and practical in everything that he does, like he's used to doing small tasks well. Frank finds it unexpectedly attractive as a personal trait. He hesitates before he goes, and then says his thanks.

 

"You're welcome to visit any time Frank," Father Benedict says, and there's understanding in his warm dark eyes that Frank both flinches from and craves. "Even if you aren't Catholic." Frank can't help a laugh escaping- he hadn't imagined that priests could have a sense of humour, and set off into the damp afternoon, feeling lighter in heart.

 

He doesn’t expect to return, chalking the incident down as one of those odd things that sometimes happen on rainy days. But it turns out that Father Benedict has been active in the issue of Catholic undergraduates being admitted to Cambridge, one of the driving forces in attempting the founding and institution of a house with the express intent that it should cater to the Catholic portion of England who though now allowed to graduate from the university without the necessity of swearing loyalty to the Anglican church are still hardly tolerated. From having never met the man, Frank begins to see him everywhere.

 

One night he is dining at Kings at the high table, taking grace with almost perfect unselfconsciousness, undeterred by the whispers that run down the hall, the next Frank sees him hurrying down a street, his arms filled with mysterious brown paper parcels, and almost by accident he finds himself falling into conversation with the priest more and more, intrigued by his quiet devotion, his openness and his willingness to discuss his faith with Frank. Slowly Frank begins to understand what makes people risk persecution for their faith, for the closeness he seeks himself. He can’t bring himself to fully agree, but there is a dangerous allure for all that Father Benedict never presses him, never pushes him on the subject.

 

There is a price to be paid though for his time spent with Father Benedict. David, staunch Anglican that he is, makes no secret of his surprise and distaste for Frank's newfound friend, but cares enough for Frank that he doesn't ask him to stop. Hughes is a different matter though. He doesn't even pretend not to think what Frank is doing is ludicrous, and when he visits he is more sharp tongued than ever before. The edge of tension between them is seared tight now, wound past the point of endurance. Hughes haunts him like an unhealed wound, something that Frank has never faced and when he finally screws his courage to the sticking point and asks Hughes point blank what he means by visiting him like this, points out that it can't be the joy of his company when mostly they are silent together, he is still not prepared for the subtle pain of the answer. 

 

"I want to know why you still refuse to acknowledge what you are." The words are harsh, the tone strangely is not. It’s light almost affectionate, like he can't understand why Frank is being so recalcitrant in his admission.

 

Frank feels his spine go stiff with a potent mixture of fear and sudden swooping guilt. "Have you forgotten what happened last time you talked like this?" he said calmly as though this were a conversation they could have at any time.

 

Hughes gazes sardonically at Frank. His voice drops to a whisper, ‘of course I haven’t forgotten Maddox.” It is that mocking name on Hughes’s mouth that undoes him at the last, and as though he cannot control himself he walks slowly forward. “Too close,” Hughes taunts, ‘never so shy before in letting me know what you wanted,” and that is the final straw, to have his shame peeled bare and raw is more than he can stand, and to muffle the accusing words, he covers old shame with new, silencing the mouth that mocks him. Feeling inexorably the shards of his rational, his carefully built wall of reason and religion crumble away from him, he falls deeper into the kiss, knowing nothing but the heat.

 

The burning Afghanistan sun seems to have soaked Hughes so thoroughly that he is still an inferno of heat which warms Frank through entirely, and tries to consume him whole. The raw hunger of knowing that this is what he has been missing for so long, since in fact Adams had smilingly given him David as his fag, since they had only just begun to dabble in the dark waters of vice together- little more than chaste-ish kisses stolen against a wall in a study, in the delicious haste produced by fear of God and Master.

 

Frank had woken something within him, Hughes mutters, speaking of a gnawing ache that never left and was never satisfied, not by the lewd letters to Robbins so completely without basis and yet so completely damning- full of the vocabulary of experience gleaned from a book of his uncle’s (a prominent member of Parliament.) Nor too had the timid shy kisses of Phoebe Allan, the chaplain’s daughter dampened it, or the knowing ones of the whores of India, and he was only slightly assuaged by the sure hands of his body servant .

 

Hughes says this in between being sated in full by the hard press of lip on lip, strong hands on his shoulders, the memory of what had begun years ago and could now be consummated between them. They are different now as Frank knows all too well; Hughes taller, leaner, burnt dark by foreign suns, with a man’s grip and a man’s desire that knows what it wants, not a boy’s desire uncertain and unknowing of what he craved, while Frank has endured bitter fruitless years without hope of end for a love that could never be. Scalded himself with shame and remorse, that was now smothered by the burning kiss. Their lips catching and parting with the regularity and inevitability of the tide. It is Frank who breaks away first, stumbles backwards, and Hughes who with no protest allows him the moment.

 

He's not sure how long it takes him before he ends up in David's rooms. David is reading, bright head bent over a book, the picture of concentration, and he first looks at Frank blankly, and then with a smile. He stands and gestures towards the comfortable chair, and Frank throws himself down. The room feels clean, he realises. He can't tell if it's just his bleak mood that makes him feel like he's just walked out of hell, or if David's room really is this bright and airy.

 

David's smile has faded now to a look of concern. "Are you feeling all right?" he asks, and the concern in his voice almost breaks Frank. He can bear anything he feels at this moment, other than David’s innocence, his unmeaning almost unbearable kindness, when he needs so much more.

 

He nods though, hating to lie, but viewing with horror the prospect of telling David about what had happened between him and Hughes. The confirmation of every worst fear he'd ever had, the disillusionment in David's eyes as he would realise that Frank hadn't the self control to hold himself back, the vague disgust with which David would shrink from his touch. He breathes in deep, leant his head back against the cushioned back of the chair. "I'm sorry," he said hazarding a smile. "I have the most awful head."

 

David faced with something he can help, brightens, fetches a bowl of water, and the arnica he keeps in a drawer, lets Frank tend to himself. "It feels like an age since we've talked," he said thoughtfully. "I've missed you," and like that Frank can feel himself fall again. It's pointless building up barriers against David when he can push right through them without ever even knowing what he's doing. Replacing David with Hughes seems more than ever like a bad dream to Frank, as though the sordid scene he'd fled so little before is already hardly real. Reality is David, with his calm touch and mischievous smile, his piles of foolscap overflowing on the desk, the barren cross on the wall, devoid of its figure. Crucifixes are much too Roman.

 

He bathes his head with a sigh, and David pulls over a chair beside him, neglects his work to talk with him, and discuss the prospects of the University Eleven against Oxford in the upcoming year (they agree that without a good crop of freshers to put some pepper into the team, that it's all lost, though David loyally defends the merits of Montgomery Warden against those who would drop him on grounds of having let watercress sandwiches become more important to him than wickets.) Frank is reminded once again of how easy it is to love David.

 

He can almost forget the sight of Hughes, mouth wet and panting, hiding the shame of what Frank's done between them. He can't help thinking that truly he is the genesis of his own destruction, that the seed lies with him, and he can't help but be ashamed of it. The quiet simple pleasure of being with David overwhelms him, and he can barely face the thought of going back to his own rooms. He isn’t afraid that Hughes will still be there, he knows the other man better than that. Hughes has been many things but needlessly cruel was not one of them.

 

His fingers itch suddenly to sweep the lock of hair that insists on flopping its way over David's eyes aside, but he restrains himself, watches the interplay of expression on David's face instead, thanks God that he has this at least, tries to vow to be content, but even now can't force out the words.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“It’s rather a swizz, the Latin mass,” Frank says disingenuously to Fr. Benedict as he hands him the hot coffee cup, and proffers the toast.

 

Fr Benedict smiles as he politely refuses the bait, and accepts the plate. “I’m too old a dog to be caught like that,” the priest says as he generously butters the toast, and adds marmelade.

 

Frank, who is indulging in a similar piece of kitchen-devilry, tries prodding him a little more. “Lor’ you do yourself well,” he jokes.

 

“Mother Church looks after her children as best she can,” is the amiable reply. “Even those of us benighted enough to sojourn in England.” Though an Englishman through and through himself, Fr Benedict enjoys engaging in some gentle ribbing, and Frank reacts splendidly.

 

“I do wish you’d stop badgering about England,” he says grumpily. “Things are changing, even if only slowly..” he’s about to go on until he catches the unpriestly glint of fun in his spiritual director’s face, and laughs himself. “You catch me every time,” he says sheepishly.

 

“I’ve had an awful lot of practice,” is the imperturbable reply. “And although I have no doubt that food is a sufficient attraction for a visit, I believe you wanted to ask me something? Have you been thinking of baptism again?”

 

Frank nods. “It’s almost all I’ve been thinking about,” he admits, though that isn’t strictly true, David and Hughes have been uppermost in his thoughts near constantly, and the agitation he feels has not been calmed by this extra worry. Now as he looks into the priest’s strong, clever face, he feels an undeniable need, an almost overwhelming urge to confess everything to the older man; one he holds back from only with difficulty. He feels- not for the first time- the lure of a religion that would let him talk about this within the sanctity of his own confession, the seductive joy of letting go all that he clings to, and the opportunity of relieving himself.

 

He hesitates, and then plunges forward. “I’m keen to consider it, but there’s so many people who disapprove...” he trails off, thinking of them- his mother who could not understand why he wanted to explore religion, when a service once a week was as far as any of them have ever gone in pursuit of God. His father who contemptuously held that R.Cs were frocked effeminates who clung to their God above their duty to mankind and country. And of course David and Hughes.

 

He shies away from the thought of David- David with his upright uncompromising staunch middle of the road CoE, so unyielding on some issues, with all the strength of a mountain- bewildered and a little scornful of Frank’s troubles. And of course Hughes, who believes in no God, expresses distaste and scorn that Frank would seek to hide behind a religion to deny the urges he cannot resist try as he might to repress and deny them. He is helpless to decide but Fr Benedict fills in for him with ease.

 

“What matters Frank,” he says quietly, “is what you believe. If you believe that the path to accepting the one true God lies within the bosom of the H.R.C.C. then you must acknowledge and defend her unto her critics, and be drawn wholly within her shadow. If you do less than this when you truly believe then you will be held to an accounting. This is why we speak of a commitment to the church. It is not to be taken lightly, if you do not truly believe then fostering a semblance of belief will not make your faith grow and flourish. Arid soil does not nurture a flower so too will the stony soil of unbelief deny you a fruitful awakening.” He clasps F’s hands with his own, reassuring him with their rough weight. “The path we walk is not easy,” he says seriously. “There are temptations we must ignore, paths that are not ours to walk. Sometimes it is bitter,” his eyes are shaded now as though looking into the past,” but there are compensations and joys that others cannot know, and they are a comfort.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Frank glances over in chapel at David, who is singing without reference to the hymn book, eyes fixed straight ahead of him, voice not as pure as it had been in school naturally, but still an exceptionally good singer, and smiles to himself as he flicks through his own prayer book. David takes church seriously thanks to the lessons they'd been taught in school, and it has always amused Frank that attracting David's attention in church is so difficult.

 

When the service comes to an end, they walk out together as always, and David says only half-jokingly, "I'll bet the Mission doesn't have music like that."

 

Frank speaks thoughtfully, taking the badinage at face value. "Not so good I suppose, and it's a much smaller congregation. It's rather nice to get a chance to mix with other people as well though. Here we always seem to find ourselves with everybody we know, there you're rather forced to speak to other people."

 

David breaks away from him, his back a suddenly tense, straight line. "I wish you wouldn't do that Frank," he said, with his voice flat, and his face resolute. Frank has never heard that tone from David before, David to whom all things seem so easy, who always tries to think the best of people and who has only ever tried gently to influence them in other directions. To have David stand there and look at him directly, impatiently, strikes at a part of Frank that he hadn't realised existed. "I don't like that beastly church, and I.. I don't think it's good for you. You've been so different recently, and it's all its fault."

 

There is no response to that and Frank doesn’t attempt one. He recognises what lies behind David's helpless anger; once again Frank is leaping ahead, moving onwards from David, in a way that he thought they'd resolved between them. When David sent him that letter breaking off their previous thoughts and actions as a pair, he had been proud of him, so proud it had hurt. And now once again it is Frank who has moved on ahead and changed, leaving David to catch up.

 

David repents of his words at once, and touches Frank's arm for a second, asking for forgiveness, and yet not making an acknowledgement of fault, and they proceed onwards to the lunch that is laid on in David's room. Once there the tension thaws under the inducement of cold meat and beer, and soon they are chatting almost naturally together. It is not quite as easy as it might have been between them, but it seldom is these days. David is engrossed in writing, and tutoring and thankful for the time that it gives to him. Frank is trying for a fellowship, and busy with that, and their time together is necessarily short.

Frank turns to David as they enjoy basking in the sunlight streaming in, before the temptation of tennis lures them outside to sweat away their indolence. "I wish you'd just meet him," he says with a helpless shrug. "If you did, I think you'd understand even if you couldn't approve."

David opens his mouth, then shuts it again obviously holding in his words. When he speaks again it is slowly and reluctantly, and he agrees.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

D is clearly torn between his impulses when next Frank invites him to lunch with Father Benedict. His instinctive distaste is married to an unwilling fascination, as though he were a rabbit caught by, the eyes of a snake, tempted not conflicted. He hesitates, and then almost visibly reminding himself of what it will mean to Frank who thinks such a lot of the chap, he smiles gaily, and reminds Frank that he can’t stay long.

 

The priest lives a simple life, and dining out is never a question. Nonetheless a respectable table is spread and Father Benedict is hospitality itself, paying special attention to David in an effort to bring him out. David is unwilling to be drawn out at first, then suddenly broke cover on the topic of cricket which they shared a strong interest in. Frank is more than happy to sit back and let them duke it out, enjoying their interaction as the conversation moves to more spiritual matters, aware once again how young David is in spirit, like a kitten batting at a ball of theology while Fr Benedict runs gentle mocking circles around him, offering him first one thread of his cassock and then another to pull and unravel, with the end result that David is skilfully drawn out far more than he meant to be and conscious that though the distrust remains, a liking is there also.

 

Father Benedict keeps them from more thorny theological paths and sticks to more neutral topics. Aided no doubt by gammon and the tea, David stays rather longer than he meant to, and is guiltily dismayed when he notices the time. “Oh Lord,” he says ruefully, and then blushes a dull spreading red when he realises he is in the company of a priest.

Father Benedict’s laugh is hearty though in its sincerity and he shows David out. “The lilies of the field may not spin or toil,” he comments, “but mortal man has his bread to make.”

 

When David is gone, he leans back in his chair, and fixes a particularly knowing eye upon Frank, who was beginning to wonder if it had been such a good idea to introduce them. He’s forgotten how damned sharp the padre is sometimes, and he has rather a horrible feeling that he’d revealed more than he’d meant to . It is a surprisingly distressing thought. He’s rather had an idea that from the beginning Fr Benedict has known or guessed the nature of Frank’s problem, the nature that he has been trying to escape, but there is suddenly the rather hideous thought that it is one matter to know intellectually of the failings and problems of your flock, and quite entirely another to have the evidence of that failure cheerfully eating gammon in your dining room.

 

The look he is being given though is not accusing or even puzzled, just calmly thoughtful. The silence is broken by the padre standing and pouring them both a glass of sherry which was unusual. Although generous with his drink, the priest himself rarely drinks aside from during the mass. As he hands the glass over, he remarks abstractly that “So that is David. What a very engaging chap.” Frank nods, hardly trusting himself to speak without betrayal. Then as though it mattered not a whit, Fr B comes out with the most astonishing sentence. “Oh don’t look so hangdog my dear fellow. You’re hardly the first man to come to mother church with a broken heart you know, or one half broken yet still hoping.” The customary amusement is in his eyes and yet understanding as well, and it is this that gives Frank the courage to speak.

 

“Aren’t you rather shocked ?” he asks.

 

“I’m afraid if you’re looking for shock Frank, you’ll have to find someone who hasn’t been a priest for ten years. It takes rather more to startle me. If perhaps you’d informed me that you wanted to kill your father and marry your mother in the new style, as some of these German thinkers propose, but more than likely I would just have assumed you were rather distantly related to the royal family.” He laughs at Frank’s expression. “If a priest cannot say these things then who can? In this case the seal of the confessional has double duty.”

 

Sobering , he continues. “You’re not the first man to love a friend Frank, and I do it call it love callow as it may be. Our first love is a powerful thing and hard to shake except by a greater one.” There is kindness now in his blue eyes. “The church has a rather unfair reputation for being riddled with sodomites, but there is some truth in it. There are many young men who have turned away from the flesh in favour of the divine love of our Lord, and who have found him in the church.There are also those who sought to deny any love, and who came to the church, which gave them solitude and sanctity in exchange for their lives. Only they can say if the sacrifice worthwhile. Perhaps,” he adds softly, “for some people love prepares them for the church. As the great man himself said ‘those who loved not wisely but too well.”

 

Frank ponders this. “I don’t want to be a priest,” he says slowly. “I don’t think it was what I was born to do.”

 

F B leans back and laughs. “I should say not,” he says dryly. “You will do great things Frank, and I firmly believe you will do well and wisely in the eyes of the Lord. But there is a lesson to be learned from what I say. Self denial is hard, and a lonely path but there are rewards at the end and scattered along the way. And sometimes you stumble and fall, yet still we are not alone.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“it's perfectly beastly,” says Hughes in disgust, when Frank tells him of his resolve. “It’s the old bloody world that’s sunk its claws into you, and you’re too blind to see it. Hiding behind priest’s skirts from fear and sheer bloody mindedness. And every time you break and fall, it’ll scourge you with guilt, because break and fall you will. It’s in your nature Frank. And then you’ll crawl on your knees to the confessional to recount lurid sins to the man in the dark who won’t know what to do with the lust that he feels.”

 

Frank has told Hughes first. Being lost to all common decency, he has no call to hold back, and if he can take this pillorying then everyone else should be easy. Besides Hughes has a way with obscene words and blasphemies, Frank thinks with a calm affection that rather surprises him. He makes some bland answer in return for the amusement of his annoyance. When Hughes cuts off his response with a kiss, he does not fight it, but yields deeply to it, as though this is another path to choose.

 

Is it blasphemous that he feels closest to God in these moments? he wonders as Hughes seeks to divest him of his clothes, to convince him with his skin of what his words had failed to do. It is as though the soft light of the afternoon has freed them. The unaccustomed afternoon drink still hums through his veins, and the warmth of Father Benedict’s hand on his shoulder as he’d left seems to have spread through him. Despite the haste of Hughes’s first rush upon him, it is leisurely and slow between them, as it has never been before. It feels new and old all at once, and he marvels at the sight of Hughes who seems to have lapsed all at once into a peculiar lassitude that fit his mood.

 

Their kisses are slow and deep as though a secret is being whispered between them without words, and for the first time Frank feels free to touch as much as he likes. The moment was melancholy almost, he thinks he is giving this up, but cannot muster much response to the idea. It was as though his decision has loosened a hard knot within him. Hughes can’t be quiet though, when Frank kisses his neck, and down his collarbone he asks if this was the sort of thing the Church allows, if Frank felt guilt already. Frank can’t feel further from it, floating in sensation. You shall have no other God than me, he hears in the quiet of his mind, and he understands it. This is ephemeral -- he would hardly be surprised if Hughes melts away under his hands into thin air and foam. This isn’t failure he thinks calmly, though he rather suspects Father Benedict would disagree.

 

The love he feels for David is the real sin. Love that has been wrongly harboured and nourished in his soul to the detriment of them both. He has allowed it to colour the pure friendship that they had, allowed it to obsess him, to nearly break apart his spirit. He does not love Hughes and Hughes does not love him, but if David had loved him in this way, things would have been different. And still he is nourishing a dark, harmful false hope within his heart

 

Afterwards they lay there in the remnants of the afternoon sun, not so close as lovers, but skin touching skin in curious places, the curve of Hughes’s knee against Frank’s thigh, fingertips brushing the hard plane of the stomach. Frank finds himself looking at Hughes with the absent minded benevolence of a spinster aunt, letting himself touch for a moment. Afghanistan has left its mark on more than his leg, has burnt his flesh away until he is as lean and tough as leather. There is nothing spare about Hughes, no softness or give of mind or body.

 

Hughes turns a little, as though he knew what Frank was thinking. “After school,” he says, and Frank winces. There is no reproach in Hughes’s voice, whatever he may have said in the past, but Frank regrets all the same what he did, can trace in his actions the root of so much wrong, Hughes is continuing though, giving him no time to regret, “..they sent me to Sandhurst. They had me on my knees more than a cheap tart, and the chaplain braying repentance in my ear all the while. Then they handed me a gun and told me to discipline the natives. To put the little fuckers in their place. The scum of the British jackbooting their way across the world. They gave me soldiers who didn’t know what I’d done, didn’t know why I was there on a bought commission, instead of at school.

 

“You learn very fast Frank." His voice is soft, almost hollow. "It didn't teach me to be anything else. I could do what I wanted out there because nobody was ever going to know. And then I get my leg smashed up almost beyond repair, and they pin a medal round my neck and call me hero. Save a person from fire, get my troops back, and all my sins are forgotten, like a red coat wipes out everything rotten about me."

 

Frank can barely breathe and suddenly the lightness of the moment is gone. He knows what he did to Hughes. Remembers so clearly, can taste the bile of his wrongdoing. Innocent until it wasn't.

 

"David wasn't me," Hughes says with no alteration in his voice. "He's the one you can't have Frank. They always are. You can have the Hughes, the Wiltons, the Henrys of this world, but don't touch the Davids. I bet Jonathan didn't touch his either, just let him swear chaste eternal love. So don't do something stupid. Don't become a priest or a Catholic, or take up with whatever sect that fills something aching inside you. It doesn't work. The army didn't fill that gap in me, and the Church won’t for you.

If you keep wanting what you can't have you'll end up the same way. Always in their sphere of orbit always circling, within the reach of the light but outside. He'll marry, they always do. And all that love that's never good enough, and yet just enough for you even without anything else. Take what you can get. Or I'll see you down Piccadilly Circus someday that's for sure. Or taking some tart to the theatre," his hands are too strong now on Frank; heavy, like he's pressing down on his heart and making him sick. He doesn't think he can bear the words, can take the bitterness or the reasonableness either of them. David seems to disappear into the distance with each word, as if by speaking Hughes can banish the shade of him that lurks in between them.

 

Hughes stands, unconscious of his nakedness, of the scarred mess which is his knee, and dresses. His clothes are shrugged on easily, and his stick comes to hand like it's the most natural thing in the world. He sits on the bed where Frank still sprawls, and runs his hand briefly down his leg. "They put a red coat on me," he said, "they called me soldier and agreed to forget about the incident. Expunged it from my record, and I was so careful never to look twice at anyone else when they were around. How do you fancy the army Frank? All the men you want and none of the guilt. Toss them a few paise and you're done. Extra pence and you get a bowl of warm water to sponge away the guilt, rather than etch it into your skin."

 

Frank sits up abruptly and dresses himself, covering himself quickly until he can face Hughes, and refute his words. "We're not all like you," he says harshly, desperately. He must believe it, can't believe anything else.

 

There's something like regret in Hughes eyes, and he catches Frank in a final kiss, gentler than his words. "I am what you made me," he says quietly against him. Then he's gone, back to his work and his words, and his hot baths and massages for a leg that will never truly heal.

 

The calm has deserted him and he's not unaware of the irony, that while he was touching Hughes, the guilt had disappeared, and now that he's done it's returned to gnaw at him with sickening disgust. He closes his eyes and tries to recapture Father Benedict's words, but Hughes has done better than he knows at damaging his certainty. He is afraid suddenly of the future, of what it might bring him. An endless parade of Davids and Toms, bright golden boys he might fall in love with, and then only two conclusions. A dry withered old age in ascetic solitude, looking but never touching. Or before him the example of A.G. of what happens when such a man breaks and gives in. The misstep, the disgrace and the burial and barely concealed need for touch, the occasional one snared in his trap, too innocent, too unworldly to know that it can be any different.

 

He can't take the thought, strides up and down the room, rubbing at suddenly cold arms. His discussion with Father Benedict has faded, he can see the words helpless and frail as autumn leaves battered in a winter storm, a vain attempt to hold back the inevitable. There is no way forward, he feels now, no way that preserves honour, happiness and love altogether.

 

He is wearily straightening his room, tired of it all , tired of there being no easy answer, no solution that he can happily accept, when the news comes from David himself that David’s father is dead. He didn’t know the Dean well, had met him only when he made the rare trip up to Cambridge, or when Frank had visited David on the odd occasion during the holidays, but he still feels strangely hollowed out and empty at the loss . It’s nothing compared to what David feels, the heart-clenching loss that he hadn’t been there to say farewell, that there had been no warning, that his father less than a month before had been contemplating walking in the Alps again this year.

 

Frank accompanies him to the funeral, stands near him as the countless people stream past David and Margery, so identical in their grief they are barely indistinguishable from each other. The Dean had been loved by all who knew him- not just his parishioners, but the great and good of the land, and there are what seems like hundreds of people to mourn. David shakes hands, and comforts, and if Frank didn’t know him as he does, he would say David’s holding up remarkably well. He only has to look at David’s eyes to disprove that truth however, or at the crumpled handkerchief Margery clutches in her hand as she stands close to her brother. 

 

The reception takes place in the house, and Margery hosts it stoically, mechanically as though it doesn’t matter what she does. She asks Frank with a low whisper when she sees him, if he can find David for her. 

 

David is standing by the mound when Frank walks into the graveyard pausing only to shut the gate behind him quietly. If David hears him approach, he gives no indication of it, continues to gaze at the earth while Frank hesitates behind him, reluctant to intrude on his grief. He's no longer sure of David, can no longer be sure that he can give what is needed. It's like David is receding into the distance the more time Frank spends away.

 

Then David turns, and the ashen taste in Frank's mouth tells him that this will never be done. That he cannot walk away from David. Not when David looks at him like that, empty-eyed and alone as he stands by his father's grave. It's an incongruously beautiful day and the sun is shining through the leaves of the old ash tree that shelters the plot, just touching David's head with a ray of light.

Frank walks along the old stone flag path, stops an arm length away and glances at the grave. The soil is newly dug, wet and dark from the rain, fresh and vital, and the modest flowers are clustered at the foot of it not at the head. No headstone has been erected yet. The ground is barren and forlorn without it. He wants to reach out, wants to embrace David and tell him this is not the end, not the end of anything, but David is too stiff to embrace. Frank is afraid he might shatter under the pressure. This isn't his friend. This isn't anyone not right now. 

 

He watches the tableau for minutes, and then he touches David's shoulder gently. "You've been out here long enough old boy," he says, and the words come easier than he expects. "Let's get back home." They slip into the house quietly, unnoticed by the multitude of guests. It's busy with the reception, the low mournful hum of the guests permeating through the walls. The kitchen is empty though, apart from a maid or two carrying out trays of tea, and bringing back plates. David makes his own tea like he's used to it, sparks up the fire and sets out the cups with the sort of brisk efficiency Frank more often associates with David organising a cricket match. The tea is bearable, hot and comforting against their hands.

 

David doesn't bother with pleasantries, doesn't ask why Frank had come to find him. He's sunk in his own thoughts, lost to the world. It takes an age for him to look up and speak. "What do your lot say about this?" he asks, no bitterness, no interest. It's like he's making conversation with his bedder for five minutes as he prepares to go out.

 

Frank doesn't reply. There's nothing to say. They're not his lot, he wants to say, but that's only half true. They preach life after death- David knows that and takes no comfort from it. They believe in the resurrection of the body. Believe in purgatory, a concept he doubts David takes much comfort from. There is little more to say, and nothing that will help, not when Frank's not sure if he even believes half of it himself.

 

David pours out more tea, and sips idly. "First train back to Cambridge?" he says.

 

Frank nods. "Tomorrow morning," he says briefly. "Will you come?"

 

Pain tenses David's shoulders and he shakes his head. "I'm not going back," he says, and his voice is soft, unbelievably gentle like he thinks Frank might be hurt. He's right of course, David knows him far too well still, knows what this will mean to Frank, how much it will hurt him to have David leave. He's trying to do the right thing, to tell Frank in the right way, when there is no right way. "You'll have Tom," David says, and the words are mechanical, like a parrot trying to soothe. Frank shudders at the implication that by losing David, he’ll still have Hughes.

 

"Hughes isn't you," he says baldly, and it's finally out between them, something twisted and ugly and broken lying on the table in this terribly ordinary atmosphere. What he's thought they'd never speak of. 

 

Of course the reply is kind, so terribly kind. Even in his grief, David cannot be cruel. "Tom is Tom," David says, and it's not like he's wrong in the specifics, just wrong in the essentials. "I can't understand you," he says, and those words are true. "It's not in me Frank. I-I don't know what is anymore. I'm not even sure who I am, let alone who you are.” There is nothing more to be said, and after only moments, David drains his cup and rejoins the guests to talk of his father, to dance the ritual of the mourning process a little while longer. 

 

When Frank arrives back in Cambridge, he walks slowly through the almost empty streets. The sky is heavy and gray, threatening a shower at any moment but he can’t bring himself to care. Almost unconsciously he finds himself moving towards Father Benedict’s lodgings, hoping the priest will be amenable to an unexpected visit.

 

Fr Benedict pours the tea slowly, reverently almost, though Frank feels a little sacrilegious for even thinking that. Handing Frank a cup, he sits back deep in his armchair, looking at him keenly. Outside, the rain falls in everlasting sheets now, battering against the windows, even down the fireplace. The fire flickers and sputters then leaps back into life, straight and steady, the log burning well.

 

The signs of Fr Benedict's previous occupation are scattered around, his pens and ink, the crumpled mess of papers, and the heavy folded envelopes. The priest follows his eyes and smiles wryly. "One handy thing about sitting by the fire," he says, "is how easy it is to burn past mistakes." His eyes are too kind, too knowing and Frank isn't certain that he can bear it, bear even this man knowing this much about him.

 

He wants to run, wants to avoid thinking about this. Wants to be back in his room, buried amongst those things he understands, the ancients and their long-dead writings. Now as never before it calls to him, before he remembers how in every line there is a David, long dead Davids who might never have existed but are still inscribed. There is no comfort to be found in the long dead laments of other failed loves. "I-," he stops, not sure what he meant to say, leaves the start hanging there in the air, ready to be filled in. He's not sure he can do this anymore. Not sure that he can agree with the simplicity of the church, not when he feels this unfamiliarity racking him through and through.

 

Father Benedict eyes him calmly. “Why did you leave your friend to his grief?” he asks, but there is no accusation in his voice, just quiet interest.

 

Frank opens his mouth to explain, and then closes it again. What could he say? That David’s raw, terrible grief at the death of the man who had shaped him so thoroughly was too much for Frank to bear? Out loud it would sound as selfish as it was. He tries to mitigate it. “He wanted to be alone,” he says quietly. “He and his father were very close.” The silence stretches between them, and he has to fight not to fill it with his words, reveal too much.

 

“I knew David’s father, the Dean,” the priest remarks abruptly. “A very fine man, and the religious community of England is a poorer place for his loss. I imagine his son is feeling very alone with such a guide taken from him.” It’s the closest he’ll get to an implicit rebuke, but Frank feels the sting all the same, a flush crawling along his face. He deserves it, he knows. Had let his awkwardness drive him away from David, ignoring the fact that despite how things had changed, David was still his friend above all else.

 

When he leaves, he’s determined to go back to David, to ignore the uncomfortable revelation he thrust upon him in the worst possible way. Their friendship has survived Frank’s proclivities before after all. He merely goes home to change and freshen up in preparation for the journey back. As he might’ve expected he is barely there when Hughes arrives, still flushed and rumpled from what has clearly been a longer champagne supper than usual. He leans on the doorframe, just in the room as Frank washes his face, watches him in silence. “Going back to David?” he asks, but there is no venom in his voice, merely resignation and a bone deep tiredness. Frank meets his eyes as best he can.

 

“He needs me,” Frank says, and his voice is as steady as he can make it. He’s packing his overnight case now, having neglected it the day before.

 

“Don’t do it.” It’s the closest, Frank thinks, that he’s ever come to hearing Hughes ask for something, rather than take. The closest he’s ever come to begging. Hughes takes no reply as an invitation to continue. “Frank, this is pointless, you’re only torturing yourself. Why not draw the poison and be happier for it?”

 

Frank continues, numbly, to pack. He knows that on some selfish intrinsic level that Hughes is right, that he’s offering _something_ to Frank, a chance to break out of the endless self-loathing, the endless knowledge that he can never be to David what he wishes to be. That Hughes standing before him, is of all bad bets, the best, the most freeing. But he can’t take that. Hughes is not who he wants, not who he can imagine loving with all the best of his nature, rather than the worst. He tries not to listen as Hughes shatters a little more, and it’s his fault all over again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

David himself answers the knock on the door instead of a maid, his face flushed and hectic. Drink, thinks Frank but can't quite believe it. He's never seen David drunk, not when he was matching Bags drink for drink in an effort to convince him to moderate himself, not at the drinkiest of dinners, nor AG’s select parties where the wine flows more than freely. He takes a closer look and sees that David isn't quite drunk, not yet. He's close though, his collar and cuffs undone, his sleeves rolled up, a cut glass tumbler in one hand, a fingerful of amber liquid left. He doesn't invite Frank in for half a second, and it stretches long and awkward between them, before eventually he turns in and lets Frank follow.

 

"It's awfully nice of you to come visit again," David says, and he's hiding, retreating behind politeness, behind an artifice wholly unnatural to him. David who has never been anything other than gauche in the nicest possible way, as honest and straightforward as can be. He doesn't offer Frank a drink, and Frank takes the liberty of pouring one himself. They sit there, in the ancient drawing room, and Frank notes how still and silent it is. He used to visit here on occasion when the Dean was alive, and there had always been laughter. David is casting around for something to say, and it makes Frank ache when he remembers how easy they were together once. I broke that, he can't help thinking, then contradicts himself.

 

They've both broken it, Frank by growing up, and David by not. He's never been more keenly aware of the three years between them than he is at this second, not when he had been sixteen and David had been thirteen, or when he'd been finishing and David was a lowly fresher. What had been potent charm at sixteen, and quaintly intriguing at twenty, should not suit the man David is becoming, and yet still Frank cherishes it, regrets breaking it as David holds himself together. 

 

He sips at his drink, restrains the urge to drain it and pour another one. Whisky will not aid him tonight. David looks up from his own glass. “It was his favourite,” he says, and his voice is barely steady. “He hardly ever drank, only ever on special occasions so a bottle would last him a year. Margery and I used to beg our mother to let us buy it for his birthday.”

 

As though on cue, Margery appears, and despite all the years that have passed since Frank met her, her resemblance to David is still striking. They share the same face. She’s at Oxford studying still, come home for this, she’d told him at the funeral. The lines of strain are carved deep in her face, as she looks at David, the softer line of her jaw obscured by her tumbled down hair like David, unconscious occasionally of social niceties, she crosses into the room, then pauses as though suddenly aware of Frank, smiles at him abstractedly before she takes a book from the bookcase, and vanishes back upstairs. 

 

David had seized her hand as she passed to acquire the book, held on tight like a lifeline, before she gently disengaged herself and left, and he looks defiantly at Frank, for a moment fire returning to him. “Why did you come?” he asks, and the justifications die in Frank’s mouth. _I came because you needed me,_ he wants to say, but can’t make his traitorous mouth open. 

 

“I came because I didn’t think you should be alone here, you and Margery.”

 

That answer seems acceptable to David, and Frank is uncomfortably reminded that David has always harboured hopes about him and Margery. Then David puts his drink down, and stands to stare out of the window into the blackness outside. “It feels pointless,” he says and his voice is low, so low that Frank can hardly hear it, and doesn’t know what to say in return, doesn’t have words to respond to the depth of despair in David’s voice. “He was a good man,” David continues, like he doesn’t even know he’s speaking out loud. Frank can only agree with him, hope that the knowledge David isn’t alone is of some comfort.

 

Then David is there before him, close enough that Frank can see every speck of colour in his grief-dulled eyes, like he’s asking for comfort that Frank can’t give. On impulse he tries anyway, stands and opens his arms to embrace David, to offer with touch what words fail to convey. Hesitantly David accepts it, stands there , then allows himself to reciprocate the chaste embrace. He’s strong enough that Frank can feel the hard muscle of too much rowing, pressing into him, taking his warmth and the small shreds of help that he can offer. Then David steps back, smiles at him, a thin weak parody of his usual smile but at least making an effort. “I want to go Frank,” he says slowly. “Come to France with me?”

 

There is nothing to blame David for in this, Frank knows. This is his weakness, his inability not to love David, and to walk away. Helpless he nods, powerless in the face of this, his only gleam of hope the new knowledge and recognition in David’s eyes, the small fragile steps he is making in understanding. One day, he can hope, one day, David will understand what he asks of Frank, will know that he has everything of value already. Frank, Frank will be waiting.


End file.
